Balancing Act
by Aussiegirl41
Summary: Elsie makes a few long overdue admissions before the matter of being Mrs Carson arises. Spoilers for 6.3 and 6.4. They're only tiny, but the fic will make more sense once you've watched those two eppies. Written for the Chelsie-cs-Countdown on tumblr.


**Written for the Chelsie Christmas Special Countdown on tumblr. I apologise for my lack of Christmas feeling in it! I ran out of time, and had to finish a fic I'd already started.**

"I've signed the register on both our behalfs," Mr Carson informed her discreetly. "Who knows what the landlord might think should you have, by habit, signed it _Mrs Hughes_."

She nodded and smiled wryly at his attitude. Granted, such a slip up would have taken some explaining.

Although it wouldn't surprise her should their host ask for some sort of explanation as they laughingly followed him up the stairs to their designated room. But how could they communicate their shared mirth was due to the irony of climbing yet more stairs even when on holiday? Nor would it be easy to divulge why such a mature couple held themselves apart, blushing, in the room's entrance while he ran through his usual monologue involving the bed, the bathroom, and the warning about being late for breakfast.

"This seems nice and tidy," she blathered after the younger man took his leave.

Her new husband was poised beside the wardrobe, and not for the first time she wondered how his employers always thought he blended into the background, as was required. In her opinion, he was always such a presence; always looming large and crowding her with his enticingly handsome bulk.

She quickly bustled around and unpacked their belongings. But once done with the necessary settling in she stood gracelessly, wringing her hands together.

Their first night of wedded bliss was to be spent in this small room above this very respectable pub in York. It was to be their layover before catching the early train to Scarborough the next morning. Mr Branson had driven them this far. The young man's non-stop chatter, tales from across the ocean and a world they could only imagine, filled any nervous silence that might have stretched between them should they have been alone for the short drive.

They were alone now...

His first example of small talk only added to the general awkwardness of their situation. "You look tired," he remarked.

She knew him well enough to know he meant no insult by his comment, but it did evoke the painful memory of her restlessness the night before.

"Did you sleep so badly last night?" he went on to ask, his tone gentle and understanding. And a tad hopeful. He liked to think she was preoccupied with him instead of sleeping, Elsie supposed.

"Sometimes I did think of you," she said with a twitch as it was an obvious understatement.

She glanced over her shoulder at the double bed and everything it meant. "And that," she added softly.

"You shouldn't fret over me or that. We will be very happy."

She chortled at his tone, one as he would use if he was giving her an order at the house.

"Last night, I worried over such silly things. Like which side of the bed you might want," he conceded, dipping his head shyly.

"I worried about how many pillows you might want." She smiled again, a silly wide grin, the same one she'd found herself sporting most of the afternoon, caught from her surprisingly jovial husband. Yet, he'd recited his vows so solemnly. Just like the Mr Carson everyone knew, albeit a less rigidly dressed Mr Carson. And then… His contagious smile, his joyous laughter, all so heartwarming and…

"Carefree," she said out loud, deciding he should know her thoughts on this occasion.

The corner of his lips rose slightly, as if he understood everything, even her most cryptic comments.

She stepped forward. Feeling a little carefree, and daring, herself at this moment. What did she have to lose, after all. They were married. Divorce would never cross his mind. She could afford to live a little…

She chuckled quietly at her memories and let her chest press ever so carefully against his. Then, slowly, in case he should be scared off by her proximity, she reached up and touched his mouth, tracing its shape with her fingers. She enjoyed how his smiles gave his lips definition, filled his upper lip which was quite often so stern when it combined with his drooping bottom one.

"It suits you; to laugh, to smile."

"You suit me, Mrs-" He paused and made her face flush with his intense gaze. "Mrs Carson," he finished finally, leaving her to wonder how he could enunciate his surname in such a different manner, considering how often she, and many others, said it on a regular basis.

As he shuffled even closer, proving her earlier anxiety was unfounded, she rose onto her tiptoes and quickly kissed the lips she'd been contemplating.

"I was sleepless thinking about doing that again," she murmured, not withdrawing, but resting her lips upon his as she spoke.

"I wasn't," he replied, his old familiar arrogance surfacing in his tone.

She leaned back, breaking contact with his lips. "You weren't?"

He stared at her attempt to look outraged for a moment before he realised just what he had said.

"I meant I wasn't sleepless about it. I'm certain kissing you will be something I'll never fret over." He rocked from foot to foot. He was such a lovely mix of pride and sweetness, confidence and naivete. "It might be easier without this, however." He reached across and found the hatpin keeping everything on her head in place. Found it easier than she should have, she mused as the hairstyle Miss Baxter and Anna had perfected that morning was fully revealed.

"You needn't have worried about your dress," he noted as his hands hovered, loath to ruin the complicated 'do. "I told you you'd look wonderful."

"Well…" She drew back a little, looked down at the coat, uncertain where to begin, or even if she should at all.

"It is your something borrowed? From Lady Grantham, I believe?"

"Yes." She wondered how much he already knew about yesterday's episode. Mrs Patmore had told him there'd been an incident, she knew. He'd offered her friend a wine whilst Elsie had forced some supper into her churning stomach.

"I have a confession," she said, taking his hand and flipping it over, lifting it to her lips, pressing a kiss to his surprisingly soft palm. She caught the faint comforting whiff of silver polish on his skin even though she doubted he'd used any today. "Lady Grantham did me one small favour."

"Of course!"

"You never let me finish", she said with an eye roll at his instant defence of the Crawleys. "Perhaps I should word it that Lady Grantham did _you_ a favour. I realised something last night, worrying away in my sitting room. I realised how very much I rely upon you, Mr Carson."

"Of course," he repeated. She'd be angry at his high-handed attitude, only his hand was now caressing her collarbone. Then, his light touch skimmed along what skin her outfit unwittingly exposed.

Telling herself not to dwell on the unexpectedness of this man acting so, she went on with her story. "The… Misunderstanding…" She wasn't sure if that was the best word for what had happened, but she could come up with no other. "It upset me greatly, I readily admit. I wanted to cry."

"It was only that, nevertheless. A misunderstanding."

She sighed. He was always so sure of the family. He'd bent his head though, distracting her by exploring her neck with his lips. A move which was even more unexpected, but not at all unwelcome.

His mouth was making her legs weak but she valiantly forced herself to concentrate on where she was with their conversation. "I wanted to sob," she continued, noting her accent had strengthened remarkably and hoping it didn't put him off his ministrations. "I don't remember being that chastised for…" She shook her head, he followed her movement, keeping his mouth firmly latched on her bare skin. "Maybe not ever. Not by the family anyway. I'm quite accustomed to being reprimanded by the butler, but…"

"You can be rest assured, where the housekeeper is concerned at least, the butler's bark is worse than his bite." His words were muffled against the pulse point at the base of her neck, sending a tremor down her spine.

"Yes," she said softly, unsure whether she was agreeing with his words or encouraging his actions. "This seemed different," she continued when she eventually felt capable of speaking. "And while brooding alone in my room I realised one thing I needed desperately."

He looked up, chilling her by breaking contact. "What was that?"

"You," she simply said. "I longed for your shoulder to cry on, Mr Carson. Truth be told, I wanted to sob in your arms. I was ashamed at how weak I was with my need for you."

"Mrs Carson, I'll have no such talk. I've never met a stronger woman than you."

"The one night I could not seek out your company, I was desperate for it. How foolish is that?"

"Not foolish at all. I wanted to visit you, to reassure you. But my marriage is too important. I wanted everything to be done just right."

"Your marriage?" she managed to tease even though her heart was swelling with love for him and his assertively posed reassurances.

"Mine. Your. Our. You've not forgotten our vows already, have you, Mrs Carson?"

"No, never. You are too generous-"

"No," he interrupted before she could again bring up the subject of the house he'd purchased in both their names before she'd even agreed to marry him. "Never. Not where you are involved."

Though tears had gathered in her eyes by now, she smiled. "I then supposed I was able to speak my mind regarding the reception because you were in the room. Even when we aren't in agreement, I know you'll be on my side." Though they could have easily been, her words were not mocking. "I need you, Mr Carson," she whispered. The truth, completely, she now knew. "And I realise, without doubt, I want to need you, Mr Carson. I'm quite happy with the idea."

"I should be insulted that you should only come to this conclusion last night. Considering I realised the same about you a very long time ago."

"And I say you're the stubborn one," she said, offering him a crooked smile of apology.

He stepped impossibly closer, fingered the coat that's possession had caused her such distress. "I think… This coat was probably quite expensive. We should probably hang it up, so that it's not damaged in any way."

She felt they were on steady enough ground for her to tease him: "Your tone is far more suggestive than I thought you capable, Mr Carson."

"Truly? I should be insulted again."

"That I should not think you capable of being suggestive, or that I think you were being suggestive?" she asked cheekily.

He chuckled and peeled the coat from her body, hanging it up as he'd proposed. Then, he took the opportunity to remove his own coat, shoes and waistcoat.

All while he was busying himself beside the wardrobe, she remained rooted the spot. By the time he returned to once again stand before her, she'd lost all bravado. She stared down at his bare feet.

"Are you quite alright?" he rasped, making her ponder just how pale she had grown in that last minute or so.

She sighed, deciding the truth would be the most appropriate. "At this exact moment I'm just mulling over the practical details of how I should remove my shoes and lisle stockings in front of my new husband." She looked up then, caught the soft look he was imparting.

"Well…" He cleared his throat. "I was a valet at one stage, so I don't think that part of our new life together will be the most difficult for us to traverse."

"And when we get to the part which will be difficult?"

"I'll be in the same room as you, should there be any... misunderstandings."

"Oh." She laughed and inched closer.

Her laughter faded when he dragged her dress up and over her head, his fingers grazing her hips as he did. Her corset somehow revealed almost as much as it hid. His gaze flicked downwards.

"Now I do really need to remove my shoes and stockings," she squeaked out as a weak attempt of humour to hide their embarrassment.

"I'll avert my eyes."

She thought he was joking, but he did just that. Leaving her to fumble with her shoe buckles as he carefully hung her dress.

Her stockings slid off easier than she's anticipated. She quickly rolled them up and secreted them away with the shoes into the corner of the room. She would rinse them out once they arrived in Scarborough. Hanging her underwear out for her new husband to see on their first night together seemed a little too informal, even when she'd known the man in question for as long as she had.

She hadn't known him in the biblical sense...

Inhaling and exhaling audibly at the reality that they were finally going to consummate their relationship, she spun around. He was positioned by the bed, waiting. He'd removed his shirt. A white singlet stretched across his formidable width, offering her a peek of greyish black hairs that she now knew must cover, to some extent, his chest.

He pointed to _her_ chest, and its mysterious, to men, covering. "This looks quite complicated," he noted with a sheepish smile. "For all my boasting regarding my valet skills, I am now reminded I am not a lady's maid."

One of the housemaids had always assisted her with donning and removing the inner garment until last year, when she'd bought one with front lacing. The idea had been to be less dependent on a maid, given their staff downsizing, not to tempt a man. And yet she now yearned for him to remove it.

"It's not that difficult," she assured him huskily.

"I should try then." She could hear the hope in his tone.

"Yes," she whispered encouragingly, closing her eyes to hide the desperate desire she must be exhibiting.

When she'd imagined him bedding her, it had always been there, in a bed. Immaturely, she'd given little thought to any of the lead up. Her thoughts never even included nakedness; they'd been wearing night clothes and had only lifted that apparel up for the required time. The less her ageing body had to be on show, the better, she'd thought. But now...

His large fingers weaved between the ties, loosening them before he unthreaded them from their eyelets.

No, this wasn't the practical Charles and Elsie from her dreams. She could never have guessed either of them could be this fervent, this ardent...

She felt the garment give way. He caught it. In turn, her breath caught.

"I was mistaken," he murmured. "You would be beautiful to any man. Not just one so struck by all your charms as I am."

"You really are becoming an old flatterer, Mr Carson," she scoffed automatically.

"It's the truth, Elsie. You're beautiful."

There it was, she thought. The first time he'd said her first name aloud, except for within their wedding vows, and it was as special as she'd imagined.

"Charles…"

His large hands were apparently no longer shy. His palms spread across her back, ran down her sides, rested assuredly on her hips, travelled lower to her thighs, eliciting tiny moans of delight along their way.

Thankfully, he avoided touching her chest or between her legs directly. Once he crossed that threshold, she would no longer be able to function mentally or physically.

"We're going to be very happy," he repeated, heartfeltly, as he always was with his compliments.

She captured one of his hands, drew it to her mouth, encouraged him to trace the shape of her smile as she had traced his earlier.

"Desperately happy, Mr Carson."

...-...-...

Charles adjusted his arm so that his wife, his lovely wife, was comfortable as she slept. The train's rocking motion had lulled her into a deep slumber almost immediately, leaving him with too much time to think about their week away.

She had made him very happy, just as he'd predicted.

He hoped he too had made her happy. She'd looked happy this morning, even though the blouse she'd chosen to wear was too plain and sensible to make her glow like she had on their wedding day.

The dress she'd lamented over, and the coat Lady Grantham had gifted her, were packed away in a suitcase.

She'd worn the outfit one more time, a night when they'd dined out in a restaurant. There he'd commented on the place settings and cutlery until she'd scolded him. She'd reminded him that they'd be back at work soon enough and he should simply enjoy what small time they had alone without judging every example of service they received. He had been attempting to change the subject, trying to avoid an argument, when he'd pointed out the Grantham's generosity with regards to the coat. Her mood had instantly changed at the time.

She had even wondered if she should return the coat when they returned home.

"But you told me Miss Baxter adjusted it," he'd stressed.

It was clear she was still hurt by the incident. He needed to make it better; knew he needed to ensure she and Lady Grantham had a smooth transition when they returned to the house.

She stirred then. "I'm sorry," she instantly apologised, for nothing in his mind, as she sat up.

"I have seen you sleep before now, Mrs Hughes," he murmured reassuringly, tracing her high cheekbones with his thumb.

Her raised eyebrows were his first realisation of his faux pas. "Mrs Hughes?" she wondered, not in a particularly critical tone. Apparently she found it more amusing than offensive.

As such he hummed in response. A type of apology but not. Elsie was the only woman who had, or ever would, share his bed, but Mrs Hughes and Mrs Carson were one and the same to him. He loved them both equally. He should probably explain that to her in more detail.

Only she went on: "It's going to require some adjustments, isn't it? At the house. We'll need to soothe some people, and bring them around to the idea that we're truly a couple, I think. We might even need to pretend we're not married now and then."

"I'm not that good of an actor, I'm afraid." Although, practising how to act aloof around her, should people notice his passion flare each time he glanced in her direction, was not a completely silly idea. "But I doubt that will ever be necessary," he said forcibly and was quickly rewarded with a sweet smile and a gentle hand squeeze.

"Lord and Lady Grantham-"

"Perhaps we could make it easier for them," he agreed.

She sighed a put-upon sigh that made him think he was about to feel the sting of her sharp tongue, but instead she relaxed back into his side, letting him support all her weight once more. He didn't complain.

"Yes, I'll concede that I'd rather not upset Lady Grantham for a while."

He frowned. "I have no plans to change my marital status again," he promised.

"No," she murmured drowsily.

He was too much of a gentleman to remind her why she was just as tired at the end of her week away as she was at its start. He did find _himself_ being reminded as he gazed down at the brooch keeping her blouse so unfortunately respectable. It was ironic, given that her respectability was probably the first thing he'd admired about her.

"Maybe though… We could change mine."

He was so distracted by his improper thoughts that it took him quite a long moment to catch what she'd just muttered. Change _her_ marital status, did she mean?

"I think you should explain that remark, Mrs Carson." His tone was stern and he would not apologise. Other than being a little homesick for Downton and its familiar surroundings, surely this last week proved their new relationship was not a mistake.

"Mrs Hughes might be the olive branch I need for the coat…"

Yes, it was the coat again, he lamented silently.

She soon elaborated on her proposed peace offering. They would go on to pass the time on the train by discussing the matter at length until they found they were in complete agreement. She would remain Mrs Hughes when working in the house.

"I'll leave you to explain it to the family," she announced as they pulled into the station. "You're the one who likes to give speeches," she suggested in that small gentle mocking tone she used so often. He rarely took offence to it. He liked that she could speak her mind around him. And besides, their first night had covered the fact that she needed his support when making announcements to the family.

His chest puffed out. He would always need to be the strong one in their relationship. She offered many other gifts, of course. He could not rate her womanly graces highly enough.

"Will you keep the coat then?" he asked as they departed the train. He'd caught her arm and felt her blouse's starched and stiff material, such a contrast to the expensive soft satin.

"I don't know… When would I ever wear it again?"

"You might like to wear it on our anniversary dinner."

His suggestion made her pause on the platform and slip her hand into his for the remainder of their journey to the waiting auto.

It wasn't necessary to specify which anniversary. After all, the coat's expensive tailoring would ensure it lasted evermore.

The End


End file.
